Fermata
by SSBB.Swords
Summary: He was only checking his reflection en route to the band's rehearsal room. He didn't mean to notice the pianist at all. [Modern AU] -Yaoi, slash: Ike/Marth-
1. Chapter 1

_**Author's Notes:**__ This was conceived back in July or August 2014, 60% written in November 2014, and then neglected until now. I imagined it to be a one-shot, but hah! My ability to convert an old (mental) story outline is paltry in comparison to my delusions of grandeur. _

_**Warnings: **__The ambiguity and ambivalence of life. On a scale of "Neighborhood Watch" to "Ambient," I'd say we're at "Mechanism" heading to a mix of "Stasis" and "SI: Transfer," if that makes any sense. Un-beta'd and you know it._

_**Pairing: **__IkeMarth. Or anyone, really, if you squint hard enough._

_**Disclaimer:**__ I don't own Super Smash Brothers._

_**Summary:**__ He was only checking his reflection en route to the band's rehearsal room. He didn't mean to notice the pianist at all. [Modern AU] -Yaoi, slash: Ike/Marth-_

* * *

Fermata

By SSBBSwords

* * *

To be honest, he wasn't an exceptional drummer.

Oh, he was decent enough, but if he didn't have the family connection to the recording studio, he wouldn't have been around enough main players to be noticed. In fact, he wasn't so much noticed as absently small-talked into disclosing his skillset.

He had been procrastinating thanks to senioritis by the extensive audio console with the chief audio engineer Samus when an incredibly attractive couple entered. Like many others who traversed the studio halls, they looked vaguely familiar, but he just fiddled with his headphones as an excuse to keep out of their business.

However, with Samus occupied with the businesswoman, he gradually realized she was probably the recording artist's manager and he now had no task to focus on. The blond had settled onto the adjacent couch and was softly plucking some guitar chords.

"You play?" the guy asked, eyes zeroed on the instrument in complete disregard for him.

"A little." He shrugged, figuring the other would catch the peripheral movement. "I'm more drums."

The lazy melody came to an abrupt stop and the blond straightened from hunching over the guitar to repeat in disbelief, "Drums."

"Yeah." What was the big deal? Was he supposed to be insulted that he couldn't perform a shredding guitar solo at the drop of a hat?

"Zel!" The blond seemed to have forgotten his presence in an instance (although the man had shoved the guitar into his hands for some unknown reason) and bounded across the room to grab the brunette manager in some flurry of artistic genius. Musicians did that, right? Have fits of artistic rage (er, brilliance)?

"What is it?" she asked, eyebrows quirked in a manner suggesting indecision between bewilderment and annoyance toward the interruption.

"Drummer. I found one!" He watched the other gesture at him like he was part of the room's décor. "He's cool. I like him."

"Uhm," he managed to utter before he was pinned down by two overly interested stares and one amused. At least Samus didn't look like she wanted to serve him up on a platter.

He later learned that Link's former bandmates had left to pursue other ventures, thereby tasking the singer to either find a new group or attempt a solo career. At that time, he thought maybe Zelda and Link were asking him to temporarily fill in as they searched or held auditions for additional members.

Three years later, he was answering questions about what he would have done if he hadn't joined the band.

* * *

"I didn't know you wanted to study acoustic engineering, Ike," Pit said, scribbling a heart-looped signature on a copy of their CD before passing it to Link.

When they had become commercially successful, the shortest member of their trio underwent an image makeover, dyeing one half of those brown strands black and using one wine-colored contact lens. Pit's willingness to rock subsequent black and white wing tattoos seemed _less _dramatic in comparison to the dichromatic hair and eyes.

"I had considered it," he replied with a shrug, flipping the permanent marker between his fingers before scrawling his own name across the plastic surface. "But what the hell, Pit. You have a master's in Greek Classics? When did that happen?"

The brunet hummed in consideration to his question. "Before I joined you guys," Pit finally answered with a bright smile.

He tried to do some rudimentary arithmetic in his head, but the numbers seemed preposterously high for someone he had always assumed to be younger than himself. "How is that…?"

"I'm done!" Pit cried out with an exaggerated stretch and one last CD thrown at the neighboring blond. "I'm getting food!"

As the other disappeared around the corner, he heard Link's disembodied laugh from somewhere by his shoulder. "I wouldn't think too hard about him." The blond slouched against the cushions and carefully autographed around Pit's explosive designs.

"I guess all those lyrics are mythology allusions?" No wonder their third bandmate could effortlessly write and perform both dark and light music. After all, classics were teeming with tragedies and triumphs. As Link murmured agreement, he switched topics: "Haven't you answered all these questions before? I mean, with your, y'know, previous people—er, group."

"We never, ah," there was a moment of silence as the vocalist attempted to find the right words, "got this popular, I guess. We were fairly new. Undeveloped."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

He gathered the stack of CDs together to hand to his fearless leader. For being lead vocals, Link tended to sit back and let Pit take the interview reins, which he never expected from the veteran artist. "So," he paused for a few seconds before giving up on forming an eloquent sentence. "Forest conservation."

"That's right." The blond smirked.

"Why forest conservation?" He had to ask, considering the other hadn't expanded on the prompt like he had hoped. Similar to Pit, Link's 'alternative career' had caught him by surprise.

"Young viewers. Couldn't have well said running sex shops, now could I?"

* * *

He hadn't quite come to terms with the concept of marketing and publicity. Fortunately, he wasn't responsible for it, but at the same time, something about being a _product _that was _sold _like a novel off a bookshelf was weird as hell.

He never considered himself a very interesting individual. During his first meeting with the publicist, he fidgeted as Roy and Zelda studied him from head to toe, brainstorming stage archetypes he could pull off. He settled with ripping a post-it to shreds as they hashed out what to do with him.

The necessity of this image formulation dumbfounded him. He thought he was just one of three components to creating music. He didn't realize he was a miniscule cog in the wheel-turning industry.

"He certainly emits the understated aura," the redhead said from across the table while jotting down illegible words on a notepad. "Leave it to the drummer to be silent as a rock."

Zelda grazed his arm before she caught his eye and asked evenly, "How often do you work out?"

He didn't make a habit of visiting a gym routinely, but he had a history of being athletic, so he made his best estimate: "Two times a week?"

"Can you make it six?"

_Huh?_

Roy interjected purposefully, "Wait, Zel." Rotating a pen, the publicist traced his figure in midair. "He's not like me or Link. He's going to get bulky."

_What._ He wanted to fall out of his chair.

"You're right. Five," his manager agreed with a nod.

When he later met the others for practice, he must have appeared shaken because after exchanging concerned looks with Pit, Link asked, "You all right?"

"I… met our publicist."

His bandmates broke into laughter.

"Oh my god," Pit giggled, even turning away from the microphone so nothing would be amplified. "That guy is—" The brunet bent over at the waist as if checking the keyboard's connections, but instead laughed toward the ground. "I wish—oh my god, I wish I had met him on set."

Before his confusion could multiply, Link explained through chuckling, "Roy used to be lead guitarist. Great guy. Really smart. Better our strategist than not."

Pit approached him, pouncing and hanging heavily off his shoulders. "So what's it going to be? Seven days a week, twenty-four hours a day?"

"What is?"

"Your workout schedule, duh," the petite artist said with a goofy grin. "I got out of it. I'm supposed to stay adorable."

From across the room, Link scoffed good-naturedly. "Right. When does that start?"

* * *

It was one thing to be amiable, cooperative, and professional when networking within the music industry, but the focus on maintaining their physical appearances and character for the media (which veered toward surreal) was an underestimated chore. He had taken to stealing glances of himself from passing reflective surfaces; he only realized this because one day before exiting the car, Pit cheerfully informed, "Your hair's fine, but your shirt is inside out." (Yes, he immediately fixed that mishap.)

Today was like any other day where he met up with his bandmates for work (it _was_ work, in the most literal sense, despite all the glamorization surrounding the idea of being in a band). The location they used for practice had a range of soundproof rooms designed for individuals to orchestras. After once accidentally walking into both formats, he realized he was very happy with the medium-sized room that neither induced claustrophobia nor agoraphobia.

While he had grown accustomed to the layout of the building, he still gazed curiously into rooms where occupants left blinds drawn up or open. Oppositely, it was very clear that some people preferred to practice in privacy. That being said, he didn't want to seem overly nosy—what with his bad habit and all—so he avoided checking his reflection when someone was practicing before unobstructed glass.

He glanced at the clear square foot panel about eye-level of a passing door and first noticed that (a) his hair _was_ fine (as it usually was, being low maintenance and all), (b) a piano, and (c) he had to backtrack and backtrack _now._

Okay, no, he wasn't. That would be very creepy. Creepy, because what was more scary than glancing up from intense concentration and seeing a hovering face framed within the door? Right. He willed himself to pick up his pace once more after the sudden stop. That wasn't a big deal. He had seen pianos before. And attractive people. He was sure that he had seen attractive people playing pianos before. Maybe his hair really _was_ somehow messy and he had paused because his subconscious was telling him—

"Are you playing with your hair again?" Pit's voice knocked him out of his inner musings the second he stepped foot into their usual room.

* * *

Nearly four hours later, he retraced his steps through the same hallway; there was no way the same individual was still practicing in that room, but he needed confirmation nonetheless. Reaching the blind-drawn room (#165, he noted this time), he boldly stepped up to the square window and looked inside.

Empty. Of course. He didn't know anything about piano, but he imagined it wasn't something someone could play for three-and-a-half hours straight.

"This room is reserved until ten."

He lost his balance in his attempt to pivot in place and slammed heavily against the door. The pianist had the decency to wince, which accompanied his pained groan rather harmoniously.

"Are you all right?" The other asked politely, cradling a water bottle in one elbow and a thin stack of music-filled paper in the same hand, pencil poised mid-scribble (though this guy didn't look like a scribbler—calligrapher, maybe).

He zeroed in on the other's notes, hoping to deter himself from rudely staring at the pianist's face. He couldn't even decipher what was written between the notes and around the margins. So much for having elegant handwriting to go with those looks—uh, he meant—

"Hello?" the other asked with a frown marring _distressingly beautiful_ features—fuck, he didn't mean that exactly—_oh, no, he didn't. _He was the poster child for _Unhinged Madman_ right now, seeing as he couldn't even respond like a normal person.

With a healthy (and reasonable) amount of suspicion, the stranger tucked the pencil behind an ear and fished out the room key. Side-stepping his prone figure, the pianist edged into the room and let the door click (and lock) soundly in place.

That was not how it was supposed to go. Nothing was supposed to have gone in the first place. Better yet, nothing was supposed to go because then he wouldn't have screwed up his one opportunity to make a_ good _first impression. He usually didn't fuck up first meetings this badly and according to Zelda's assurance, he could be quite composed and charming when he put his mind to it. Now all he wanted to do was bang his head on the nearest wall.

The door eased itself open with enough unnatural trepidation that even he noticed the slight movement. "I apologize for the scare," the pianist said, holding out a slip of paper toward him, and explained, "Reservations are made online. Only rooms 160-170 have pianos."

Speechless, he accepted what was handed to him and watched the shorter man duck back into the room. Fingers rubbing the ripped edge of the corner piece of paper, he noted the website address was carefully printed in perfectly legible handwriting. Absently, he flipped the paper over to see a slew of sixteenth notes dancing like wildfire across horizontal lines and all he could think was, _fuck, what if he needs this?_

* * *

_**-tbc-**_


	2. Chapter 2

_**Author's Notes:**__ Welcome to another installment of "Writer Is Avoiding Real Life." Oh, wait, is that not the title of this story?_

_Special thanks to moeouji, ForeverInAbyss, and a lovely Guest for the support and encouragement. :) Without you, this chapter wouldn't exist._

_P.S. I know schools are in session again, so good luck all, take care of yourself, and I hope this update cheers you up. xoxo_

_**Warnings: **__Unbeta'd improvisation. I probably shouldn't have admitted that aloud._

_**Pairing: **__IkeMarth, probably (i.e. who am I trying to kid?)._

_**Disclaimer:**__ I don't own Super Smash Brothers._

_**Summary:**__ He was only checking his reflection en route to the band's rehearsal room. He didn't mean to notice the pianist at all. [Modern AU] -Yaoi, slash: Ike/Marth-_

* * *

Fermata

By SSBBSwords

* * *

He had tucked that fragment of paper into his pocket, only to have it weigh on his mind all the way home. He could feel himself sinking deeper like a stone, churning scenario after scenario, wondering if he could orchestrate another (more successful) meeting. Maybe he could fake difficulty reading the website address (except the handwriting was impeccable and anyone with half a brain could find this information online). Maybe he could reserve the last practice room and then magnanimously allow the apposite party to use it (except terms and conditions restricted his access to two hours a day, which posed the desultory question as to how the pianist had claimed it for a full day). Maybe he could return the scrap of paper, which consisted of two bars of music (except the pianist deemed the music score worthless enough to be recycled as a non-sticky Post-it).

So it was futile, and he was embarrassed that his wishful thinking persisted. There was something alarming about how much he wanted to see a complete stranger again. He wasn't even sure why the compulsion had fomented to this point. It was one thing to find someone attractive, but another to amend a less than stellar impression. He had not uttered one word to the pianist, who had been a paragon of civility, so his mortification lingered unabated, as did the scowl on his face.

He completed the day's prescribed gym routine through sheer force of habit alone, but it surprisingly restored his equanimity in the process. It became obvious that unless he went out of his way to track down and loiter near the pianist, he would never run into the other man again; this did not alleviate his earlier disconcertion, but it at least implied being spared from future mishaps (and beggars couldn't be choosers, right?).

Tamping down the nagging sensation that he was losing something invaluable (as if there was some hidden opportunity—if only he knew how to read between lines of musical notes), he dropped the piece of paper into a trashcan and resisted the urge to dive in after it.

* * *

"I had an idea last night," Pit proclaimed with envy-engendering self-assurance.

At this point in their careers, he felt no twinge of surprise in the room. Deceptively creative, the guitarist-slash-keyboardist always had a gift basket of 'What-If-We…?' and he had deduced by now that the brunet must not sleep. His bandmate should consider changing those wing tattoos from angelic to chiropteran.

Seated across the conference table, Zelda gave a minimal nod, pen poised above paper. Link made one more sportive turn in the swivel chair before also presenting the synth player with undivided attention.

Eyes trained onscreen while browsing for previously uploaded sample clips, Pit explained, "I was playing with some of our old tracks like this one," and they dutifully listened to thirty seconds of the fourth track from their EP, "but what if we…?" The altered thirty seconds sounded richer by far, and even though he had sufficient audio engineering background, he couldn't distinguish exactly what the other had tweaked to get this sound.

Curiosity surging, he hoped his bandmate's tablet contained a version of the software program used to create the new mix, but seeing as Pit hadn't hooked anything up to the projector, it was an empty wish. "What did you do?"

"It's not simple." Pit's face scrunched into a grimace. "Arranging it virtually, that is."

Thoughtfully spinning her pen between nimble fingers, their manager translated, "You mean we need another one—no, two-"

"We could get away with one," the keyboardist interrupted before any obviating misapprehension could take root, "but I propose hiring another guitarist or bassist."

After sharing a glance with Zelda, Link immediately tackled whatever mission the manager had tacitly conveyed. Rapidly texting, the blond ruminated aloud, "Roy could fill in at the studio," and upon receiving a prompt reply from their publicist, presented the latent issue: "But touring."

"I'll start recruiting," their manager answered, unperturbed as she delegated responsibilities in her notes, "and discuss this with Palutena. What else might we be looking for?"

The open-ended question left the band in silence. "What do you mean?" The vocalist asked in an unprecedented display of incomprehension.

Blinking up from her notepad, Zelda rephrased, "Do we need any other live instruments?" She contemplatively listed some examples: "String, brass, woodwind?"

As if their manager had just unleashed a carload of puppies into the room, Pit blurted out, "Yes!"

With a bemused smile and quirked eyebrow, she repeated, "Yes, what? Like a clarinet?"

He wasn't sure anyone in this room currently knew how to compose and integrate a _clarinet _(clarinets?) into their music, but faith in his bandmates quashed any doubt in his mind. He interpreted Pit's beaming grin as, "We don't know yet, but yeah, we'll need some live instruments."

* * *

"Here, play with this," was the extent of the instructions Pit left him when the synth player all but shoved him into the chair in front of a glorious heap of audio tech and dropped headphones into his lax palms.

Even though brainstorming tended to be casually unstructured, he felt blindsided after being handed the reins to Pit's musical arrangement equipment, especially when unfamiliar with the mixing software. Things were infinitely easier when he had physical drumsticks in his hands, as opposed to a digital screen with innumerable options via numbers and buttons. He wanted to learn how Pit altered their previous tracks, but it looked like he would be lucky just to create a varying beat at this rate.

Link tapped his shoulder and signaled the removal of his headphones. "How's it going?"

"I'd be lying if I said I didn't want a drum set right now," he deadpanned in return. "Respect," he concluded, inclining his head toward the petite brunet mutely listening to something from an omnipresent tablet while hanging haphazardly over the couch edge. "Writing?"

Shrugging, the blond replied unapologetically, "Disjointed as fuck."

"Ah." Fortunately, his relief didn't supplant the sympathy in his response. There was a reason why he didn't volunteer to write lyrics or melodies.

"Hey," the keyboardist shifted positions from horizontal to head-down on well-loved cushions, "don't you play the flute, fearless leader?"

Like an animal sensing danger, Link froze. However, unsure of what Pit wanted exactly, the vocalist recovered and cautiously replied, "Not recently. Why do you ask?"

Sitting upright and detaching one earbud, Pit finally looked away from the tablet screen and pinned the blond with a penetrating stare. "I like the sound of it. What else do you know?"

With a resigned sigh, Link answered, "Besides guitar and drums, harp."

Just as he mumbled, "Really?" the brunet exclaimed, "Oh, that's a good idea!"

"Sure, as long as it's not me," the vocalist agreed, acquiescent but firm.

"Yes, but _practice_," Pit emphasized with patented wide, innocent eyes, which absconded immediately when another question arose. "How about harpsichord? Do you know _that_?"

"No."

"Piano?"

"Still no," Link verified with another long-suffering sigh.

With a huff, Pit muttered, "Damn, I liked that one," to which the blond offhandedly commented, "I thought _you_ knew that one."

Rattled by the rapid back-and-forth between his bandmates, he cleared his throat and pointed out, "Aren't we hiring people for this?"

"Right. Ri-i-i-i-ight," Pit mulled over this established fact like a newfound epiphany. Popping the dangling earbud back in, the keyboardist dictated with finality, "Good, 'cause I want violins."

"So we're hiring an orchestra," Link summarized with a laugh. "Palutena's going to kill him."

* * *

The next time he walked into the practice room, their publicist was laughing uproariously with Pit by the keyboard.

"Dude, she _is_ going to kill you," the redhead confirmed with a shit-eating grin, "and with an Excel spreadsheet to boot." Noticing the drummer, Roy gave a two-fingered salute. "Hey, Ike. Want to contribute to this guy's eulogy?"

Before he could respond, Zelda entered, followed closely by a drowsy-looking Link. "Don't ask me," the blond forewarned. "I've wasted all my rhetoric on lyrics last night—this morning, I mean."

"No one is killing anyone," their manager informed, holding up a placating hand. "However, considering pecuniary anxieties, I'm hoping someone tells me something more specific than an orchestra. Please."

Pit glared at Link with the compressed fury of a betrayed toddler. "Just wait until I get my hands on your phone." The brunet blew a raspberry at the vocalist and threatened, "Brass Marching Band ringtone."

"What do you mean?" Zelda asked solemnly. "You want an entire brass section?"

"No!" Pit denied vehemently. "We're thinking strings, actually."

Roy rocked upright from a previous slouch. "Hey, my roommate was a violinist." Their publicist turned to Link. "Remember?"

"True," the blond mused. "You still talk to him?"

A rueful smile adulterated the redhead's original excitement to take advantage of an extensive network of musicians. "I dropped the ball on that one. Last I heard, he got signed by some classical music company," Roy paused in recollection, "or joined an orchestra. Or both. Is it possible to do both?"

With an impressed whistle, the keyboardist quipped, "So a _professional_. Would he consider hanging out with us plebeians?"

"Does he have a consultation fee?" was their manager's provident question.

"Is he in the area?" he added, not sure where, when, or why Roy had lived with this guy.

The redhead groaned at the onslaught of unanswerable questions. "I don't have the slightest clue right now. Let me make some phone calls or something, okay?"

A disembodied yawn in the vicinity of Zelda's feet redirected all of their attention to Link. Phone in lap and curled up in the vertex where floor met walls, the blond reported vaguely in the direction of the rest of the band, "He's on concert tour. Something about this city's philharmonic."

Wide-eyed, Roy crossed the practice room in two bounds and a skid, snatching up Link's phone before the screen went dark. "Are you serious?"

Rubbing tired eyes, the vocalist chuckled before reminding their publicist, "We all went to the same school, remember?"

"I was his roommate!" Roy argued.

"Maybe this violinist just likes lead singers more than guitarists," Pit chimed in with a melodic giggle, sounding entirely too entertained.

With the redhead debating in the background, Zelda expropriated Link's phone for herself. Surrounded by a dozing vocalist, defensive publicist, and eccentric keyboardist, she turned to him as the remaining member of the band and confessed, "Thank god you're the laconic one."

* * *

His manager's assessment of his personality was never far off. He didn't care to maintain a dynamic pretense to compete with his more colorful bandmates, and as much as he admired and enjoyed their company, it was nice to be surrounded by instruments—alone. Just a few minutes of solitude, the calm before the storm, the antithesis of a room designed to be the acme of acoustic treatment—

"Hello?"

He nearly jumped out of his skin and in his surprise, jostled his drumsticks to the ground. Standing hesitantly in the doorway was the pianist, looking ready to choose the latter of the fight-or-flight response. His heart bounced agitatedly as his mind sloppily reviewed every viable option as to why this man had reappeared before his very awestruck eyes.

"H-hi," he stuttered, both pleased that he managed to speak this time and ashamed that he sounded like he lost his voice. "Hi," he repeated, summoning some semblance of his social persona. "Can I help you?" _Nailed it._ Roy would be proud.

"Zelda is holding a meeting here, correct?" the other asked. At his terse nod, the pianist stepped fully into the room, and the door inched shut with a muffled click.

When he caught sight of a violin case in the other's hand, he felt faint as his brain put two and two together. "So you're Roy's roommate from school?" Was that the right thing to say at this time? He wasn't sure, but repeating the sparse knowledge he had of the situation seemed ingenious for small talk fodder.

"Yes." The pianist set down the instrument and approached him at the drum set. "My name is Marth."

Shaking the proffered hand, he introduced himself in perfunctory return, "It's nice to meet you. I'm Ike." Was he shaking? He might have been shaking. He felt like he was shaking. He swallowed, but the dense cramp in his abdomen refused to dissipate.

"So you're the drummer," Marth posited with a subtle smile, as if finally deeming him innocuous. "I listened to the EP. You're very good."

The credit for that remark was most likely due to professional courtesy, if not ingenuous flattery, but his heart sped up anyway. This was very bad. The _exact _opposite of what the other said his playing was.

"Thank you." His voice sounded oddly far away. Maybe this room had shitty acoustics after all. Or he was dissociating. Stalling for time to collect the scattered vestiges of his focus, he scrubbed a hand through his hair and hedged, "Were you practicing piano the other day?"

"I was." Discovering the neglected drumsticks on the floor, the shorter man retrieved and extended them toward him to accept. "Were you looking for me then?"

* * *

_**-tbc-**_


End file.
